her. “Do you think it possible you can find me a London paper, Mrs. Hartup?”
“I suppose I can, sir. I might send Charlie to get one for you.”
“He’s not a page boy, Mrs. Hartup. But yes, that will do. Only…”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want as many as can be found. From the last week or two. Be sure the death notices are in them, will you?”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” she said and turned to attend upon her errand.
“Where have you sent her?” he asked stopping her.
“The girl?”
“Yes, the girl!”
“She has gone on her way. I don’t know. I believe I saw her walking in the direction of Mr. Wyndham’s house.”
Sir Edmund’s eyes flashed to meet hers. The question, unspoken, was nonetheless clear.
“I did not send her there, Sir. She went of her own accord.”
An expletive erupted from his lips before he found the coherency to offer his next command. “Send Charlie after her. Bring her back.”
“Sir. I don’t have time to train a woman of questionable ability or to—”
“Hire her, I say! I’m not giving you permission. I’m giving you an order.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, taking little care to veil the irritation she felt.
* * *
Imogen was disappointed. She didn’t dare deny it. With her head held high, and fear and misgiving mounting in her heart, she set her footsteps toward another house not far off and whose tower was just discernible through the treetops. She had accomplished half the distance when she was stopped.
“Miss Shaw!” came the voice.
She turned to find a young boy, perhaps eight, running toward her.
“Are you Miss Shaw?” he asked, breathing hard.
“I am,” she answered.
“I’ve come to fetch you. You’re to return to the Abbey.”
That feeling of hope, so unfamiliar to her, soared again upon hearing this.
“May I?” he asked, and without waiting for the answer, he took her bag from her.
They walked in silence for some time as Imogen surveyed the boy. He was a beautiful child with hair nearly as dark as her own and eyes like water, clear and brilliant. He spoke well too, and so she hesitated to consider him one of the servants. His clothes were finely cut, if a bit worn, and his manner ingratiating. By the way he turned to her several times during their journey, she could tell he was examining her with equal interest. Yet nothing was spoken between them until she was once more standing within the Abbey’s entrance hall.
“I’ll go find Mrs. Hartup for you,” he said and was gone.
Mrs. Hartup, when she returned, stared at Gina for a long minute before at last releasing a frustrated breath. She had hired her but she did not seem pleased with her decision.
“Follow me, if you will,” she said.
Imogen obeyed. The house was built around a courtyard, the entrance hall forming the main transept. To her right, against the east wall, stood the staircase, and beyond this lay several state rooms and a ballroom. In the lower west wing of the house was a dining room, another drawing room, and the library.
They mounted the staircase, where Imogen took in more carefully the once grand splendour of the place. The wainscoted panels were in need of dusting and polishing. The portrait bestrewn walls, once blue, had faded now to a sombre and melancholy grey.
At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hartup turned to her.
“There,” she said with an impatient wave of one hand, “is the west wing. Sir Edmund’s rooms are here,” she said, indicating the door nearest them. She jerked her head then in the opposite direction. “The east wing,” she said, “is no longer in use. We keep up as well as we can with what is.”
Mrs. Hartup walked on.
Another flight of stairs brought them to the uppermost floor, where the servants’ quarters and several storage rooms were situated. At the end of the hall, Imogen found her room. Though small, it would suit her well enough.
Mrs. Hartup cast her eyes about the room before turning them once more upon